


Sparks Flew, Literally

by corviiy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Trans Male Character, Witches, neurodivergent characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviiy/pseuds/corviiy
Summary: Karkat gets a crush on his oddball classmate, and winds up kissing him in the dark room in photography. Strangeness ensues.





	1. An Odd Fella

**Author's Note:**

> Needed to take a break from EV and write a seasonal fic! Hope yall like <3 [note; i've never worked in a dark room so if i get stuff wrong that's why!]

You think Dave Strider is a pretty interesting dude. He gives you the impression that he probably has a joint somewhere in his body that is a little too flexible, or maybe that he pours his milk before his cereal. Not exactly those things, but you get a vibe that feels that specific. A weird vibe, different from the weird vibe everybody else in the world gives you. Everybody else’s vibe is more like an asshole-ish vibe, which is different because Dave definitely acts like an asshole, he just doesn’t give you that vibe.

You’ve been writing the word vibe in your notebook as you think it, so much that it’s stopped looking like a word. Your teacher calls on your attention, because apparently you weren’t paying any. Whoops, you don’t actually give a fuck. It’s photography. Point, take pictures, listen to how to use the dark room. Rinse, repeat. You just keep your eyes down at your notebook where the word vibe now looks so much less like a word that it looks more like some lines doing acrobatics.

The first time you met him, you got paired together for an introductory assignment. S and V are close together, so you were alphabetically destined to be together, which sounds a lot more romantic than the project actually was.

The project itself was really simple, but also really hard. You had to take pictures that were influenced by the others style or method. It seemed really easy for Dave, you thought. He asked you a lot of questions that weren’t really deep, but still sort of telling. He took pictures you think you’d probably take, but can’t really tell if you would. It’s not like either of you have mind blowing photography skills. You can’t remember how long you sat staring at his portfolio. Not because it was enchanting or of high quality, but just because you didn’t fucking get it. They just looked like pictures to you. Everybody’s pictures just looked like fucking pictures. Trying to see some deeper meaning in them was like trying to chip away at a wall with a plastic spoon to escape pseudo intellectual undergrad hell.

A lot of people in photography class strike you as pretentious. Despite how into it Dave got, though, you never felt “fake deep” from him. He seemed to really be genuinely moved and excited by looking at other people’s pictures, looking at your pictures. He’d moved his lips, pressing them together, pursing them, twitching them as he looked at your interpretation of his style. You don’t think he notices he does that, or that he bounces his leg so fast it made the table shake. It sort of bothered you but you’d just pulled your arms back and tucked them against your side, leaning forward and waiting for him to tell you that you got it all wrong, fucked it all up.

He didn’t. He told you that you did a GREAT job, especially when it came to tone. You still don’t understand how he understands it. You don’t even understand your own photography, you just take neat looking pictures. Conversely, Dave goes on for near days. You almost feel like you’re being graded even though that’s the teacher’s job, but he seems so happy in the midst of his soliloquy that you don’t interrupt, it sort of reminds you of when you talk with Nepeta about your books. 

Anyway.

You’ve written the word vibe more times than you can count. The teacher calls your name again, but this time she isn’t mad or even trying to get your attention. You’ve managed to zone off the entire class period, actually, and apparently she was assigning partners for something. You look at your phone for a time. You’re ten minutes away from leaving class, but people are pairing up. You didn’t hear your partner so you sit tight instead of ask. Maybe they’re going to come to you.

They do. They being Dave Strider, of course, because if you think of the devil, the devil will probably appear to wipe a grubby hand all over your precious trappings. You feel like you’ve been caught with your own grubby hand in the cookie jar because you were literally JUST thinking about him. 

“So, uh. You’re good with this right?” He asks, giving a shrug that’s almost misplaced. You’re glad he wears sunglasses even indoors, it makes you feel less obligated to look him in the face while asking a stupid question.

“Good with what? I didn’t catch the assignment.”

“Oh, no biggie. I check out sometimes too.” You wanna scoff. Like he’d ever check out during photography. “It’s a contrast palette assignment, I was thinkin’ we could do something different and use the darkroom, then overlay colors maybe ourselves instead of just developing colored pics.” He does a nonsensical little gesture with his hands and you humor him with a sort-of laugh.

“Okay, yeah. What colors do you wanna use?” He takes a seat perpendicular to you and pulls out his phone, laying it flat on the table.

“I got this real good app for blending palettes and stuff and i was thinking we could go with like a salmon pink--” He pulls up the application and uses a color picker and a stylus to get the color he’s talking about. “And maybe like, a kinda yellowy green? Like a flower plant y’know.” He picks the color and drags it from the pink to the other side of the canvas. “It’s gonna be a little muddy in the middle there but if we make like sections outta it I bet we can still pull off somethin’ kinda nice lookin. It’ll be really warm-toned, what do you think?” 

“I mean yeah, as long as one of our photos doesn’t end up that pukey looking color in the middle.” You say, pointing whereabouts you mean.

“Maybe pukey is a good color for this assignment.”

“Maybe you’re being a bullshit lawyer from bullshit town, trying to advocate for the bullshit defendant who threw up all over his bullshit children.” He doesn’t seem to understand, but then does this ~~cute~~ weird, definitely weird little snort-laugh.

“Yeah, but every bullshitter has a right to a fair trial with an unbiased jury. So give it a shot dude maybe we can go from like, a city to nature thing and on the outskirts of town some homeless guy is passed out with vomit on him near the railroad tracks. We’ll take his picture and then help him grab some water from the local Starbucks.” He offers. You just roll your eyes.

“Fine Mr Bullshit Lawyer, I’ll hear your plea.” You remark, closing your notebook just as you catch his eyes drifting to look at the repetition of the word ‘vibe’ all over it.

“Great.” He nods, blinking and looking back down at his phone. “Just in time too, we gotta bounce. Well, I do. You could stay here but it probably wouldn’t be any fun. You should get home pop off your kicks and rest your bubbies, dude.”

“What? Was that English that you just spoke to me?” He laughs again, grinning and standing up from his seat. He doesn’t tell you what he meant but you’re guessing by context clues that ‘ _ kicks _ ’ means ‘ _ shoes _ ’ and ‘ _ bubbies _ ’ mean ‘ _ feet’ _ .

“I’ll seeya tomorrow, Kat.” He tells it to you with a friendly (and warm as fuck) but entirely unexpected pat to your shoulder as he walks off and joins the other students as they bottleneck out of the classroom. You always wait because the rush to leave is too cramped, but when you look at him you see he has his own method, weaving his tiny ass through the crowd of people in such a way where it almost isn’t cutting, and buzzing out the door ahead of several people who were there first.

Yeah. He’s definitely a odd fella.


	2. Photography is Hard

“No, I swear to god she did exactly that.” Dave laughs as you talk, again managing to snort a snort that you’ve grown super fond of by now. “Like first of all step off? I can literally smell the garlic from your lunch, gross. Then she actually literally put her hand on my back and rubbed it.” You see in the dim red like his face twist into a cringing expression of disgust.

“Aw, man. I hate that shit. Why can’t teachers keep their hands to themselves honestly? Especially in high school like I’m not your kid don’t touch me?” He shakes his head, falls silent while he lines up a piece of picture paper under the projector. You’re idly moving the photo around in the developing tray while he does so, but you’re afraid you’ve lost track of how long it’s been in there and are trying to eyeball it. “Hey, you should switch that over about now.” He comments.

“At least one of us is keeping track of time.” You murmur, pushing the picture up with the tongs so it slides against the back of the tray, then pulling it out. It goes into the other solution.

“I’m always keeping track of time.” Dave says, coming over with his new picture and pushing it down into the first bath. He sighs. “Okay, one more, those should be it.” He nods. “You should do the last one, I’ll pay attention to the baths.” He’s probably right, you’ve lost count of how long they’ve each been in there already, even though it’s probably only been like a whole five seconds.

“If you always keep track of time,” You muse, stepping over to the projector and sliding in the new negative, “Do you know how long we’ve been in here? I’m worried we’ll go over our time slot.” He gives a little shake of his head as you explain, head tilted down to focus on the trays.

“Don’t worry about it, we still have like ten minutes.” You watch him work faster than you would as he switches the picture you were working on into the last bath, and his into the second. “Should be plenty of time to finish and hang them up.” You nod and focus on not bumping the photo paper around while the negative is being burned into it.

You sort of understand Dave’s obsession with photography a little better since the project started. You still think that a lot of photography stuff is kind of pretentious, but as the two of you roamed around town to look for pictures to take this week you’d concluded it was actually kind of fun. Dave got super into it, talking about angles and lighting and explained why something would look better this way or that. He talks a lot, he really doesn’t ever not talk but you’re not one to judge. At least it’s not in a mansplaining kind of way, he just genuinely rambles and it’s nice, because most people who talk as much as he does are super condescending about it.

One of the most fun things about the whole process is taking the pictures and definitely not knowing how they’re going to turn out. You don’t have a screen you can look at while you aim the camera, you can only hope that what you’re seeing through the little hole is what you’re actually taking a photograph of. It can be frustrating because sometimes you don’t realize something is blurry until you’ve already wasted the materials to develop it, and that’s a pretty expensive mistake if you keep making it. For that reason you’d let Dave and his alarmingly steady hands do most of the picture taking, too. You swear you’ll pitch in when it comes to staining the pictures.

You pull the picture paper off the projector and bring it over to the first empty bath, standing next to Dave as he pokes the picture he’s working on around in the second bath.   


“How are they coming out?” You ask, focusing on the bath and definitely not on how close Dave is next to you. It’s hard, his upper arm keeps brushing against yours as he wiggles the tray around with his left hand. Has he always been left handed? 

He steps back, tilting his head pensively, like he can deign anything from looking at them in this light. He doesn’t say anything at all for a while, so you feel like maybe he just isn’t answering your question. You consider the possibility that maybe because art is subjective, asking how they’re coming out when you have a pair of eyes of your own might be kind of stupid. You meant it more like, he’s the expert on the subject, right? You hope he took it that way but the longer he stays quiet the longer you feel super self-conscious about your question.

“Good.” He mumbles, but then steps into action, switching the pictures in the baths and helping you transfer yours into the next bath. “Set the timer while I hang this up?” He asks, turning away from you to stride across the room and do just that. Did you do something wrong? Probably. You try not to think about it too much and just set the timer like he asked. You hear him exhale after he’s hung the picture. “I actually lost count of that one, had to eyeball it.” He mentions, coming back over next to you and leaning against the table the solutions are on.

“Right okay, so much for always keeping track of time.” You jab. He laughs a little. “Can I even trust you when you said we still have plenty of time to work in here? What if we don’t? What if someone comes all up here and exposes our pictures?” You interrogate him jokingly, and it’s okay because it makes him laugh more, and he’s got a great smile.

“You got me, I’m intentionally sabotaging our pictures. Mr. Wordell is gonna come in any second and break us up for overrunning the time slot.” He teases, standing up straight right as the bell dings. You help him out, switching the last picture into the last bath while he pulls out the other picture. You poke it around and set the timer as he walks off to hang the picture he just pulled out.

“That’s right.” You say, setting down the tray after having moved it around a little. “I caught you, motherfucker, I’ve foiled your insidious--” You stop short, arms going up to grab at the thing that’s suddenly super up in your business.

You’d turned around to face him with maybe a little bit more twist than necessary. That twist got the two of you chest-to-chest in front of each other, your hands grabbing his upper arms. His eyes are wide looking up at you--he doesn’t wear his shades in the dark room--and he looks about as bashful as you feel.   
  
“Uh,” You are a master of poetic articulation, it is you. You shuffle a little bit, trying to work your way around him, but maybe that would be a lot easier if you weren’t hanging onto him. You let go. “Sorry.”   
  
“Don’t be.” His immediate, unhesitating response. He’s still looking at you right in the eyes. It’s making a vaudevillian tap dancing star out of your heartbeat. His expression is unreadable to you, all you know is that he won’t fucking look away, so you’re finding it extra hard to look away from him. The silence can only rationally be a few seconds long, but it drags out for an eternity you’re pretty sure. Despite the fact that he’s speaking softly, when he opens his mouth again it’s like a balloon popping while you were watching it inflate. “Can I kiss you?”

The tap dancer that is your heart stops, like a pause for dramatic effect, but when he did he slipped on a leftover marble from the previous act, and now he’s dancing around rapidly but not of his own volition. The guy is mortified, but the audience keeps clapping, and he keeps tapping at remarkable speeds. You open your mouth and all you can conjure is a vaguely positive confirmation that yes, he can and should definitely kiss you. It’s accompanied by a nod.

He tip toes because you fail to lean in like a person probably should for a kiss. The kiss he gives you is short, soft, and you don’t really know how to kiss him back. It’s not like the movies where the two of you just start making out, because it came and went faster than you wanted or expected it to. In conclusion, not satisfying. 

That’s not a drag on him, though. You lean down and let your lips connect with his a second time, picking up the kiss how it should’ve been done in the first place. He’s kind of cute about it. Despite having full lips you still feel his two front teeth graze against your lips. Not biting or nipping, just there pressed onto your skin as the rest of his lips are. 

Your hands are up again, this time cupping his face, fingers hooked on the back of his neck while your thumbs rest on his cheeks. The kiss heats up as his hands rest on your hips. You don’t mean that like it heats up in some sexy, romantic way. You mean it literally heats up. His lips are really fucking warm, hot even. It’s different, but not uncomfortable. Like stepping into a hot tub after swimming in a pool at the end of spring.

Then, he shocks you. No, literally, there’s a little zap to your lips. It hurts a little, but it’s okay. You brush it off as a fluke, some static or something. Another series of pops crackles around your lips and hips, though, heat radiating off his skin at a temperature you wouldn’t consider human. It doesn’t seriously alarm you until it continues for more than an entire second, and you think for a moment that on the other side of your closed eyelids you see light. Bright and yellow, and when the timer behind you dings you realize, fuck, light doesn’t belong in a dark room!

Be when you pull back the room is just dark and red. He looks a little upset, eyebrows all screwed up. By what, you don’t know. Maybe it was just as weird for him as it was for you? You swallow and then open your mouth to ask him if he felt it too? You’re too late though. 

He moves past you and pulls the picture out of the bath, then scurries back to hang up up on the line.

“Hey, wait, what was--” He lets out a noise of distress when you try to take him by the arms again, this time on purpose. You let go immediately and he bustles around you to snatch his bag off the ground.

“I’ll see,” He says, slinging his book bag around his shoulder. His voice comes out quieter after he clears his throat and throws on his shades. “I’ll see you later.” Before you have a chance to catch him, he’s slipping out the door. 


	3. Light Exposure

After much obsessive deliberation, you’ve decided that what happened between you and Dave last week was definitely not your fault. That’s kind of bad phrasing, though.

To be more specific, whatever kind of hot firework-y light-show bullfuckery happened when you kissed wasn’t caused by you, and it wasn’t random either. You’re pretty sure it was him that did it, and you know by now for a fact that it DID happen, and it wasn’t just your feelings getting the better of you.

You’re sitting in the courtyard, twiddling your thumbs and trying to explain the situation to Jade.

“I still don’t understand what you mean by literally.” She says, twirling her fork into her pesto pasta and scooping as big of a bite as she can manage into her mouth. Mouth to fork, too. 

“Classy.” You mutter, rolling your eyes. She gives you a sarcastic sneer and flips one of her locs over her shoulder. “And by literally I mean literally. That’s the only way I can describe it. Sparks, light, fireworks, pops.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing when you’re kissing someone?” She asks with her mouth full.

“I don’t think you’re understanding.” You say flatly.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. I don’t understand.” She shakes your head and you decide to bite the bullet and pull your messenger bag into your lap.

“Look, I know that ‘literally’ has adapted a colloquial interpretation to stress tone of a situation, but I’m not kidding.” You pull out the manila envelope containing the pictures you and Dave developed. After shuffling them around for a moment, you pull out a picture that’s been damaged from the light. “Look. Here’s a picture we developed when we weren’t kissing, and here’s the picture we developed when we were kissing. All that crazy white streaky shit? That’s light exposure. That’s what happens when you turn light on in a dark room.”

Finally she gives you some valid consideration, leaning in and squinting at the photos you present to her.

“I’m telling you, Jade. There were LITERALLY sparks flying. Like, zapping around his hands and lips and shit. I didn’t see it unless you count that whole eyes-closed-with-lights-on kind of seeing. Y’know where you can see light from behind your eyelids. I swear.” She slides them back to you and leans back in her seat, giving you a pensive look.

“Okay, so. It’s not just some kind of atmospheric fluke?” She asks, digging into her pasta. “Y'know you won’t know for sure unless you try at least two more times. Scientific theory n’ all.” She gives a little wink as she shoves the next fork of pasta into her mouth.   
  
“I’m pretty sure it was him. It’s not like there was a storm happening or there were a surplus of balloons. And his lips were hot, okay? His hands, too.”   
  
“Wow, TMI Karkat, I don’t think Mr. Wordell would appreciate the idea of things getting that steamy in the dark room.” She laughs and you lean forward to smack her shoulder with the envelope before stuffing the picture back inside.

“I mean. I’m serious, I don’t know what to do here.” You mumble. You slip the envelope back in your bag and drop it next to your feet.

“Well, do you wanna kiss him again? Or like, be with him?” You feel your cheeks heat up and sink down to tuck your face in your arms.

“I guess.” Your voice comes muffled from within the fabric of your hoodie, then you sit up again a little, instead resting your cheek on your arm. “It’s just like. What if he’s dangerous? What if he’s some freaky conductor y'know like those people that get struck by lightening five times and win the lottery.”

“Then I’d probably tell you dating him is a good idea. Maybe you’ll get married and then he’ll win big. I mean, aside from winning you of course.”

“Har har har, you’re so funny.” You manage it with monotone despite the embarrassment you feel at the prospect of marrying him. 

“Okay, so like, maybe try paying better attention to him?” She shrugs, taking a sip of her SoBe and propping her knee up under her chin. “Like, maybe survey him a little. Watch what he does in class and outside of class, hang out with him more or something. See if he really is dangerous or if you can gauge anything from what he does outside of your interactions with him?” She suggests.

“So you want me to stalk the guy. Oh yeah, that’ll definitely make him think I’m a lucky catch. Great advice Jade.”

“Shut up! I don’t mean STALK him, just. Maybe observe him a little? It’s not as creepy as it sounds you probably already know weird romanticized shit about him like the steadiness of his hands or the shape of his lips.” 

“Wow the fuck, call me out like that.” You snort, hands snaking close and stealing a noodle right off her plate. “I guess you’re right though. Maybe paying attention to him will answer some questions? He hasn’t been avoiding me at all since so I guess that’s good news y'know. Like I didn’t completely fuck it all up.”

“That’s the spirit--god, get your hands out of my pasta.” She snaps as you reach for another noodle. “It’s unsanitary. If you want pasta that bad why don’t you get your own? Or I’ll get you some.” She offers.

“Excuse me. I am perfectly capable of acquiring my own pasta, thank you very much. You dare to insult me so.” You mutter, shaking your head. 

After a moment, you reach for another piece and she outright smacks your wrist as you do.

“Fuck off my pasta, Karkat! It’s time to get your own!” 

She’s probably right. You sigh and allow her to haul you up from your seat, carrying her carton in one hand while steering you to the little deli you got food from with her other.


	4. Fluence

You hate to say it, but Dave Strider does absolutely nothing remarkable during class. Nothing remarkable outside of his already established remarkability that is. He raises his hand a lot and tries to answer every question, involves himself wholeheartedly into any class discussion, but that’s just so normal for him that there’s nothing you can figure from it. After a little thinking about what his whole deal is, you’re kind of disappointed you don’t see his pencil stand straight up and rotate like in The Craft.

You’re disappointed, but not surprised. Things never happen like they do in the movies.

So your next move is actually kind of like stalking. Not totally, but you understand him to be the kinda guy who studies in the Starbucks on campus. So maybe a half an hour after he’d get there, you find yourself nearby. He doesn’t take notice to you, but you can tell he’s staying a while because he’s got a ceramic mug instead of a paper cup, like a cafe guest.

You order for dining-in too, and settle yourself on a plush, brown leather chair adjacent to a large study group. From here, you can watch him, glancing up on occasion while he taps away at his computer. You make yourself look busy too, nose deep in a romance novel you picked up the other day. It actually is a really good one, about a prince, and it’s really gay which is super rare in trashy romance erotica. Suffice to say Dave is so boring that you’re more absorbed in your novel than you are watching him at some point.

Well, he’s not boring as a person, but you can only watch someone do one thing for so long. There ARE little observations you pick up. He wears headphones over his slouch beanie, and bobs his head to whatever music he’s listening to. Sometimes he stops his typing and makes emotional facial expressions and lip syncs whatever song is on. Sometimes he even pulls his hands away from the keyboard and moves them around to the beat or lyrics you think? Or maybe it’s aimless. You think it’s kind of cute.

Otherwise, though, it’s been over a half hour and there is nothing weird to note about him. You’re about to give up, but you stick around just a little longer to watch while he orders another drink. Upon acquiring it, he sits back down where he was, dumps a couple of sugars into it, then stirs it up. After he lets go, the stirrer keeps stirring, which isn’t that weird. That’s what happens with the momentum of swirling coffee.

For a couple seconds, sure. But it keeps going, and after slowing to a certain pace, it doesn’t stop. He’s not touching it though. His left hand rests on the table, index finger moving in circles while he scrolls something on his computer. There’s a jolt that rings up your chest. This is it. It’s real, it’s what you’ve been waiting for. Your eyes stay glued to the cup for a full minute you’re sure before the thing stops.

It stops dead, though. You glance up at Dave, and see him looking in your general direction. Like he knows somebody is watching but isn’t sure who, you think. Perked up, he scans the big study group you’re sitting near and you bury your nose in your book evasively.

But holy fucking shit. What even was that?

You stay clenched, reading the same line in your book over and over again before you decide it’s safe to peek up over the top of it. Unsurprisingly, he’s ghosted from his seat entirely, taking his computer but leaving his coffee.

Nice going Karkat Vantas, ya played yaself.

And yet, you don’t want to stop playing. At first you have no intention of following him. You simply gather your things and start walking out, but you pass by his cup and note that it’s almost empty. It’s not important but you sort of space off into it for a moment before shaking your head and deciding, yeah, maybe you’ll follow him. What harm could be done? You’re not even sure where he went, but after looking back at his cup for a moment, you get the urge to head towards the downtown area. Sure, that makes sense.

Your pace is kind of slow, unsure. Worst case scenario you get lost and call an Uber so long as you don’t follow some muffin crumbs into the woods or something. You’re not even certain that you’re going the right direction, you just swivel your head around as you walk to try and pick up on any sign of Dave. Eventually you spot him, after you get to the first block you see him to the left and across the street. You were right, he totally is going downtown. It’s too bad you’re stopped at a crosswalk. You figure, though, that he won’t be turning for a while. You hope at least.

You sorta lose track of your surroundings, focusing only on remaining within visual proximity of Dave’s head. His soft blonde mop is like a pin on a map that you just walk towards. Eventually he turns, and forces you to speed walk to catch up enough to see where he’s going. You round the corner just in time to watch him disappear into a little brick-lined inlet to a terraced area.

Why he’d go there, you have no real idea. From what you remember it has a bookshop you’ve never been in, a burger place, a record store, and a gazebo. Logically, you’d think he’s headed for the record store because music is kind of his thing, but instead when you catch up you see him duck into the bookstore.

You should just leave.

Why would you follow him anyway? You don’t even have any kind of questions you just got this **compulsion** to trail after him. God, you feel like you’re losing your mind, shuffling around in place and unsure about what to do. A normal human being would probably turn tail and go home, maybe humbly apologize in a vague post on tumblr to anybody who’s ever been followed around by some creepy classmate. You’re the worst, it’s you.

You can’t leave though. Taking a step away from the bookstore gives you this anxiety-laced bile that stings your diaphragm. Getting closer eases that. You take another step closer, and eventually, Congratulations Shinji, you’re doing some normal human walking.

When you open the door, the smell of the bookshop makes your nose wrinkle for a second. There’s a thick, potent incense that hangs in the air and clings to your throat and lungs.You eyes get a little misty but it’s just because you’re not used to the atmosphere you guess, because it goes away quick. Aside from the initial pungency, being inside gives you an immediate sense of calm.

It’s not a normal bookstore. It’s one of those new-age hippy Wicca places. There are display stands with statues and relics and jewelry. The ceiling moves with things in a way that reminds you of Howl’s room in Howl’s Moving Castle. There is a wall with incense and candles and candle holders with cheesy fairy statues. The section that is actually book display is focused heavily on self-help, spirituality, and psychology. It’s a little unnerving to you, you were raised in a low key catholic environment, but you still feel an unusual calm just being there.

Until your eyes land on the two blondes by the checkout counter, one behind it and the other leaning on it. The latter being Dave. You don’t know who the other person is but she looks a lot like him, and they’re both staring right at you. Dave looks especially puzzled.

“ **You** were the one following me?” 


	5. Literally.

“I can explain.” You can’t, actually, and your hands go up defensively. Did he know the whole time, or just as he was walking down this street? You frown, and watch as his relative’s hand rests on Dave’s forearm. A comforting gesture, you think.

“Do you want me to take care of him?” She asks, violet eyes locked with yours.

“Nah Rose, he’s cool. The guy I told you…” He flushes as he starts to speak and mumbles the last half of his sentence. She gets this look that is completely unreadable to you but maybe is kind of coy, going off her smirk. “Uh, Karkat, this is my big sister Rose. Rose, Karkat.”

“Come to work on your photography project?” She asks. You feel your face heating up.

“No! I did not! I came to--to--” You grit your teeth and look at Dave. “I came to ask you what your whole DEAL is? What actual kind of bullfuckery?” He frowns as you say it, fingers rubbing and playing with this bracelet he wears. 

“My whole deal? I mean I got a lotta deals, Karkat. Seriously that sounds sarcastic but there's any actual number of things that might make me appear to have a deal, behavior or agenda that would, y’know, stand out comparatively to the deals, behaviors, and agendas of other folks.” He says. “I mean I get why you’ve been watching me but you’re gonna have to be a little more specific, I got a lot goin' on over here. I keep a lot of bullfuckery in my tiny, corporal form, on this plane of existence. Feel free to ask about other planes, though. I have a lot going on, astrally speaking.” You groan halfway through his ramble, because he just doesn’t stop talking? At all? Ever?

“See, that’s what I mean. That’s fucking weird, Dave. What the fuck is an astral why are you referring to your body as corporal? Why do you stir your coffee without actually putting your hands on the stirrer?” You interrogate. Rose makes a little _tsktsktsk_ sound.

“Dave are you being reckless?” She chides. He shrugs.

“Only cuz I like him. I mean the coffee thing was an accident I didn’t think anybody would notice.” He jams his hands in his pockets and kicks at absolutely nothing on the ground.

“See, that’s another thing! The kissing thing where your lips and hands got all hot and the air crackled. I’ve seen a lot of romcoms Dave but fireworks during kissing is a metaphor.” That specifically seems to get his goat, his blush goes all the way down to his neck and he looks at Rose. She gives a little shrug. “Yeah doing the freaky mind-telephone twin communication thing is pretty weird too, FYI.” You tack on. He laughs and steps towards you.

“We’re not twins.” He remarks. “Do you wanna hang out? I feel like it’d be easier to explain if we were hanging out.”

“Wow, no, I’m not gonna Netflix and chill with you to give you a sense of social easiness, sorry.” You shake you head. “No fuckin’ way am I letting some pint-sized wizard lead me dick first into no-mans land.”

“Witch, actually.” He crosses his arms. “And it’s not no-mans land. It’s my house, it’s above the shop. People saw you come in here Karkat I’m pretty sure they’d notice if you didn’t come out.”

“Especially Goody Proctor across the street. She’s looking for reasons to make this town the new Salem.” Rose adds. It’s kind of difficult not to laugh at that but you manage a sour twist in your lips and a cough that covers up your response to her unexpected snark.

“Okay, fine.” You mutter, nodding. Despite the abnormality of the situation, you don't sense any actual danger. He takes your hand and your brain goes to static as he holds it, any hesitation you had pretty much going out the window. It's so goddamn warm.

You let him lead you into a hallway in the back of the shop. Along the way you pass a lot of candles and an almost empty but comfortably furnished room that is free of smoke. He leads you up the stairs at the end of the hall, and the smell of incense blends into the smell of food. The door at the top of the stairs is unlocked, and the distinct smell of homemade foods thwacks you right in the face.

“Hey mom, I’m home.” He calls. You glance up into the warm woody kitchen and see a myriad of kitchen utensils working by themselves with a very tall blonde woman leaning close to a recipe book that’s actually floating. She she glances over, her eyes widen and all of the moving parts of her cooking machine stop dead, some of them clattering to the floor.

“Oh goodness me, haha, I’m so clumsy.” She laughs, picking up some of the things. “Who’s um. Who’s your friend?"

“This is Karkat, and you can resume your hairline trigger kitchen majyyks now. We are definitely not fattening this one up for dinner.” You can physically feel your face turn into that emoji with the greater than sign and an O. Mouth opening, eyebrows knitted. He laughs. “Joke! It’s a joke c'mon now. I’m a vegetarian.” He gives you a little shove. 

“That explains way more about how weird you are than the corrective statement about being a witch, just so you know.” You comment.

“I’m sure. Anyway mom can he stay for dinner? We’re working on a project together and also he knows I’m a witch.”

“That’s fine, baby, make sure to keep your door cracked. No nonsense under my roof.” You could not be any redder if you tried, you’re pretty sure.

“Don’t worry she just wants to be able to put the fire out in case of emergencies. C’mon, I’ll show you my room.” He waves you into the hallway. His whole house is made of warm wood, good smells, and decor that’s dark and vividly covered.

As he pushes his door open and throws his book bag into the corner of his room. You plop yours gingerly next to it and note that his room is both lighter and more modern than the rest of the house. There are wires everywhere, electronics you don’t know the purpose for, and a big window over his bed that lets the light of the sunset outside filter in.

“Long day, huh.” He sighs, reclining onto his bed.

“Dave, I…” You’re suddenly hit with the reality that you’re in his bedroom, alone with him. You’d been so focused on The Answers that you forgot that you have a crush on him and are now within romantic move-making proximity. Smooth. “I’m having a time over here, Dave.” You mumble, picking at the hem of your shirt.

“Yeah I can see that.” He reaches his arms over his head and takes a deep breath. You can see through the material of his shirt there’s some kind of crop top undershirt that gets a little rucked up as he does it.

“Y’know, this is stupid.” You shake your head. “I don’t even know why I’m here. Following you is probably a pretty disproportionate response to some freaky lightshow that’s like, actually none of my business now that I think about it.”

“I mean. It’s probably your business if we’re gonna kiss again.” He sits up. “And I gotta admit you can’t really take credit for following me here. I felt someone watching me in the cafe and like. The intent was intense so I was a little freaked. Put a charm on my cup that would draw whoever was watching me to the shop.”

“You put a spell on me?” You frown.

“Not really a spell more like a 'fluence.”

“A 'fluence.” You parrot back, feeling a little nervous.

“Karkat I don’t mess with peoples’ feelings. If that’s what you’re worried about. There’s no love spell or attraction charm, that’s dark shit I don’t mess with. I just wanted to know who was watching me that intense because, like, what if they were dangerous?”

“Yeah? You think luring a potentially dangerous stalker to your living space is a good way to deal with that prospect?”

“Mama would take care of it.” He says, matter of factly. “She doesn’t let anybody hurt us.”

“Yippie for you. That doesn’t explain why you attacked my lips and body with your weird sparky-sparks.” You point out.

“Attack is kinda a strong word, dontcha think?” You shake your head, but then shrug and nod a little. “I really can’t help it.” He avoids your eyes with his entire face pointed to a part of his room he’s probably seen a million times. You exhale and let go of your crossed arms, moving to sit down next to him on the bed.

“You can’t help it.” You repeat. “What does that even mean, you can’t control yourself from like, fire-bending or some shit.”

“Kinda, yeah.” He fiddles with that bracelet again. “Y’know when things get overwhelming and like, there’s this feelin’ in your chest that’s squirming and swelling and makes you feel like you’re gonna bust open, and everything is just a whole lot and some change.” You nod, because boy fucking howdy are not not a stranger to that feeling. “Well, yeah. I don’t know if it’s just my body's way of dealing with the over-stimulation but when that shit happens, I get really hot and my skin starts to spark like that. I once listened to a really good album and wound up puttin’ the whole block’s lights out because I touched an outlet.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Right.” He shakes his head. “I really can’t help it. If I try to not do it it just makes me anxious and stir crazy as all get out but more often than not is just. Futile.”

The two of you sit in silence for a long moment. You hand rests next to his on the bed, so very close. You can feel it radiating off of him like he’s anticipating your response. You decide to buck up, swallow, and let your hand slip over his. It sparks.

“That’s pretty endearing.” You tell him. “Like, when you listen to music and lip sync and move your hands. It’s like that kind of endearing.” You explain. He looks up at you, this time his expression is readable even behind his shades. Surprise.

“You’re cool with it?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’m cool with it. I mean, I’m _shocked_.” You say, grinning a little. He doesn’t get it for a moment, so you go on. “I’m even kind of _ecstatic_.” That’s when he gets it, snorting and shoving gently at your shoulder.

“You’re terrible.” He says it, but his fingers get caught up in yours very deliberately. You feel vibrations on his palm.

“So, if I kiss you, that’s how you’re gonna react?” You ask. He still seems bashful when he answers positively. “So...can I kiss you?” You can see his blush so well against his tan skin, and he even adjusts his sitting position to be more facing and closer to you.

He nods, so you lean in and kiss him. Not even as passionately as you had in the dark room, but sparks still fly. Literally.


End file.
